When Rain Fell Over College Street
Page 1 — The Night He Collapsed
Rain washed over Kolkata like a confession the city refused to keep. Neon lights flickered against flooded pavements, and the smell of wet paper drifted through the narrow lanes of College Street, where old books held more secrets than the living.
Aisha Rahman locked the wooden shutters of her small bookstore, Last Chapter, her fingers ink-stained, her heart carefully barricaded. She had built her life between pages and silence. Books did not betray. People did.
Thunder cracked.
A body hit the ground outside her door.
She froze.
For a moment, she considered walking away. But the sound—a low, painful breath—pulled her back. She opened the shutter halfway and found a man sprawled on the wet pavement, blood soaking through his black shirt.
He was conscious. Barely.
"Don't call the police," he rasped.
His hand caught her wrist—firm, desperate. His touch was cold but electric. A warning and a plea in one.
"Let go," she snapped, trying to pull away.
"They're watching."
Those two words changed everything.
Against her better judgment, she dragged him inside. Locked the doors. Turned off the lights.
Under the dim yellow lamp, she cleaned the bullet wound on his side. He didn't flinch. He watched her instead.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Someone who shouldn't be alive."
She almost laughed. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only safe one."
Their eyes locked—hers guarded, his shadowed with something darker than pain. Suspicion crackled between them, thick as the storm outside.
And yet, when she stitched his wound, her fingers trembled not from fear—but from the awareness of how close his body was to hers.
Danger had entered her bookstore.
And it was breathing.
Page 2 — The World He Brought With Him
His name was Arjun Sen.
At least, that's what he said.
For two days, he stayed hidden in her storage room between dusty shelves and forgotten manuscripts. Outside, men in black SUVs circled the neighborhood. Aisha noticed unfamiliar faces pretending to browse books across the street.
"They're not thieves," Arjun told her quietly. "They're cleaners."
"Cleaners?"
"They erase problems."
"And you're a problem?"
A pause.
"Yes."
He finally told her part of the truth. He had worked for a covert criminal syndicate operating across India—politicians, businessmen, law enforcement officers—all bound by money and silence. He had witnessed a political assassination staged as an accident.
And he had proof.
"You should leave," she whispered.
"You think they'll spare you because you're innocent?"
Her silence answered him.
That night, the power went out.
Glass shattered.
Men stormed the bookstore.
Arjun grabbed her hand. "Run."
They fled through the back alley, rain blinding their vision. Footsteps chased them. Gunshots echoed against ancient brick walls. They ran through narrow lanes, past shuttered tea stalls, into the chaos of a night market still glowing under tarpaulin roofs.
Aisha stumbled. Arjun caught her against him.
For a second, amidst the shouting and sirens, their faces were inches apart.
"Trust me," he said.
"I don't even know you."
"You will."
He pulled her into the crowd.
And she realized she was no longer running from danger.
She was running with it.
Page 3 — Tension Turns to Fire
They hid in an abandoned apartment overlooking the river.
The city lights reflected in the water like broken stars.
Aisha paced. "You lied to me."
"I protected you."
"You brought this to my door!"
"And I would take it back if I could."
Silence fell heavy between them.
She moved toward him, anger blazing. "You don't get to decide what's good for me."
"And you don't get to pretend you're not already in this."
The argument dissolved when he grabbed her wrist—not violently, but firmly enough to stop her retreat.
"Why did you help me?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
Her breath hitched. The tension between them had been building since the first night—the glances too long, the proximity too intimate, the unspoken awareness of bodies in the dark.
"I should hate you," she whispered.
"But you don't."
His hand moved from her wrist to her jaw, slow enough for her to pull away.
She didn't.
Their first kiss was not gentle. It was desperate, angry, consuming. A collision of fear and need. Rain thundered outside as if blessing their recklessness.
For the first time in years, Aisha felt something break inside her walls.
And Arjun felt something dangerously close to hope.
Page 4 — Betrayal in the Shadows
The call came from someone she trusted most—her childhood friend, Rafiq.
"I can help you," he insisted. "I know people."
Arjun didn't trust him.
Aisha did.
They agreed to meet near the tram depot at dawn.
It was a trap.
Men surrounded them within seconds.
Rafiq wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "They said they'd spare you."
Her heart didn't shatter.
It went cold.
Arjun fought like a man with nothing left to lose. He pulled her behind him, shielding her from bullets.
Then a black car door opened.
A man stepped out.
Not a gangster.
Not a politician.
But the respected social reform leader who frequently bought books from her store. The man who spoke about justice on television.
He smiled.
"The only dangerous thing in this world," he said calmly, "is a witness with a conscience."
Arjun stiffened. "You."
"Yes," the man replied. "I built the syndicate."
The mastermind had been hiding in plain sight.
And he had been standing in her bookstore for years.
Page 5 — The Sacrifice
Chaos erupted.
Arjun whispered in her ear, "When I say run, don't look back."
"No."
"You trust me?"
Tears filled her eyes. "Yes."
Gunfire exploded again. Arjun lunged forward, tackling two men. He pressed a small drive into her hand—the evidence.
"End this," he breathed.
Then he turned toward the mastermind's car, drawing their fire away from her.
"Aisha!" he shouted.
She ran.
She ran through smoke, through screams, through the breaking sound of her own heart.
Behind her, shots rang out.
One.
Two.
Three.
Silence.
Days later, the conspiracy exploded across national headlines. Arrests. Scandals. Public outrage.
The syndicate fell.
But Arjun Sen vanished from every report.
Some said he died.
Some said he escaped.
Every evening, Aisha reopened her bookstore in College Street. She kept one shelf empty.
For him.
Because sometimes, in the quiet between customers, she felt it—
The faint brush of a presence. The memory of rain. The echo of a voice that once said, Trust me.
And in the darkest corner of her guarded heart, hope remained.
Love had arrived like a storm.
And like a storm—
It changed everything.